Tell Me I'm Here
by Smoochy
Summary: H/W slash. Holmes has a developing case of dementia praecox and he's unable to deal with it on his own, but will just-married Watson be there for him, having settles down with his new life?
1. Prologue

**Tell me I'm here.**

By Dr. Harley

**Rating**: PG to NC-17 in later chapters

**Pairing**: Holmes/Watson, Watson/Mary

**Summary**: Holmes has a developing case of _dementia __praecox_ and he's unable to deal with it on his own, but will just-married Watson be there for him, having settles down with his new life?

**Warnings**: Slash, sexual content, emotional torture

**Disclaimer**: *lazy to think of a witty disclaimer, so just* not my characters

**A/N:** The idea I've been holding up for like since the first trailer of the 2009 movie came out which is pretty long ago. The reason I actually didn't want to start this whole new thing is that English is not my first language, so not only are there billions of mistakes but I also am no expert of old Victorian English you guys all use, so please, bear with me, I can't do otherwise. If someone could beta this I would be very VERY happy about it.

_**Prologue.**_

It all started with a headache, and for the life of him, Holmes can't remember when, exactly.

But it certainly started some time after Watson's departure.

At first, it was that slight, almost unnoticeable discomfort, that aching feeling, slowly growing into the headache and somewhere down the line he had stopped acknowledging it at all, as it became the always-presenting part of his being.

Being his sensible and reasonable self, he deduced that the headache must have come as the side-effect of the opium, it was only logical that such drastic drug would cause regular headaches, especially since he was using it so frequently.

Holmes hadn't let himself worry otherwise it would've affected his professional judgment, especially when he had to solve his cases alone since Watson was too busy settling down his new life with Mary Morstan.

So he hadn't worried until that day it happened for the first time.

It was the Sunday night - about two weeks since Watson's wedding – when Holmes was awaken by a voice which seemed to sound right in his head. He sat up sharply, his hand quickly reaching for the lamp on his bedside table. There was the whisper in his ears, several voices whispering frantically something that he couldn't understand.

Panic-stricken for some reason, he turned his head around, hoping to see something or someone in the dim light, that could be the source of voices but he saw none. The air seemed to chill suddenly for several degrees, and Holmes looked around nervously again and again, frowning and biting his lower lip so hard he could feel blood.

The whispers got louder and Holmes felt his heart pounding painfully in his ears, the kind of fear clutching his chest he hadn't felt in years.

There was a chuckle somewhere from the right corner of the room and Holmes squinted, trying to spot something, _anything_ there, his left hand slipping under the pillow and grabbing the knife there in a death grasp.

He heard the chuckle again and then another one, and as he jerked his head to another side of the room he saw something he couldn't possibly logically explain in the moment. His heart stopped for what felt like an eternity, the knife slipped out of his hand as he saw a black mist of shadows dancing in the corner of the room, somewhere near the windowsill.

Holmes watched, somewhat horrified, his usual cold temper abandoning him completely, feeling emotions he hadn't experienced for ages. The hair on his arms stood up with goose bumps and he jerked to the back of the bed, as the black mist moved towards him. He desperately clung fast to the backrest, shocked and terrified, wishing the strange thing to disappear, and nevertheless unable to move, his limbs numb with fear.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the whispering stopped and some of the senses seemed to have returned to Holmes, the blood rushing to his numb arms and legs, and he dropped himself on his back, covering his whole body with a blanket, careful not to leave a single chink.

There was nothing then, only dreadful silence and the sound of his own harsh breathing and his heart beating loudly in his ears as he curled in a ball, wide-eyed and unable to think of any explanation for what had just happened, the fear still clutching his chest in an icy grip.

He lay there for the rest of the night without moving, not even closing his eyes, afraid of hearing the whispers or seeing things again, till morning sun shone through the thing blanket he had covered himself with.

Only then he got up, dressed and fixed his hair, careful not to miss anything that could somehow give in anything about his night incident.

While drinking tea with Watson, several hours later, he showed no sign whatsoever of anything that could possibly bother him and Watson didn't notice anything nor even tried to, too engrossed in his just-married state.

Yes, that was the very first time it actually happened, at least Holmes thinks so, though now he can't take for granted his sensibility and memories anymore.

Now, he can't take _anything_ for granted anymore, and that's the main problem: he can't see the thin line where the dream ends and reality begins.

Not anymore.

So he only hopes Watson will be there to tell him.

-----

Like it? Hate it? Am I a complete looser? Please, do tell whether or not I should continue this :)


	2. Something's there

**Chapter 1.**

_**Something's there**_

"How is your married life going, my dear friend?" Holmes asks, his brows arched in polite interest. For any person his tone would seem absolutely nonchalant, but Watson has known his friend for too many years not to detect insincerity. He sighs wearily as he already knows where the conversation is headed.

"Very well, Holmes, thank you for asking" he replies, careful to sound as confident as he can without being suspicious so Holmes could think he's lying.

Which he is not, of course.

Holmes is looking him with such intensity Watson grows uncomfortable, but he stands his ground and bears his stare without looking away. Holmes seems to be taking in the level of his sincerity and after several moments a shadow flickers across his face, so quickly that Watson can't tell for sure if he has actually seen it.

And then Holmes flashes him his toothy smile before taking a cup of tea to his lips. Watson does the same, not actually thinking about his actions.

Holmes has come to visit him in his new apartment, and he was sure to arrive at the time of Mary's absence which was predictable but nevertheless annoying. Holmes is a grownup man (albeit his regular acting like a capricious five-years old child) and Watson has a right to expect appropriate behavior from him. He's simply sick and tired of Holmes possessiveness like that of a child who had been bereft of his favorite toy.

"But are you one hundred percent sure you've done the right thing, marring Marry?" Holmes starts all over again, and Watson breathing quickens with annoyance at the sight of that sparkles dancing in his friends eyes.

"Yes I am, Holmes, so would you just please drop it?!" Watson snaps, his knuckles going white at the force he is using to hold his cup of tea.

"Ah, my friend, I think I can hear your teeth gnashing. May be you are holding something back?" Holmes says with an expression of absolute smugness on his face, which is the breaking point for Watson, making him explode.

"Yes, actually I am, I'm holding back that you are impossible and unbelievably stubborn, and the level of your immorality and ability to get under my skin is higher than you can imagine! Oh, and also that you're acting like a bastard and I'm sick of it!"

Holmes puts on a face of fake concern.

"You've been very irascible lately, old boy, I wonder whether it's your premature wedding telling on you"

Watson just opens and closes his mouth, unable to think of a reply for that, angry and sore, but more than that – confused as to why exactly he is angry. It isn't the first time Holmes is acting this way, though it might be the frequency of it that makes him so upset.

May be he should stop inviting Holmes to his house? It only ends up with him fuming and Mary getting upset anyway, so why bother? Holmes will never accept his marriage; it's been four weeks already and look at his friend!

He sighs deeply, rubbing his eyes and feeling Holmes' stare on his face, watching him.

"I'm just worried about you, old chap" Holmes finally says and his hand reaches down to his pocket to fish out his pipe.

"There's no need" Watson replies coolly, but Holmes ignores his tone.

"I do think there is" Holmes says, nodding to confirm his own words, a puff of smoke escaping his lips. "Because, I assure you, there will be a problem when you realize, sooner or later, that you don't love Mary, and my task here is to prevent this 'later' because of all the wasted time you will so much regret."

"I love my wife, Holmes, whether you like it or not, I really do, so it's time for you to either accept it or to back off and leave me alone" Watson grumbles through gritted teeth.

"You think so now" Holmes agrees and his expression is no more one of amusement, but deadly serious and Watson suddenly can't help noticing the dark circles below his friend's eyes, the sick glitter on his eyes, the hollow cheeks as if he has been very ill lately. Watson frowns, taking in the way in which Holmes is seated in his chair – hunched, his back tense and shoulders hitched. He lets it go, though, as Holmes continues:

"Today she's a mystery to you, a person who you don't really know but look forward to getting to know. But what will it be like in, for example, a year, when you realize there's nothing more to her than the day you met, that there's no mystery behind? Won't you be bored? Because you, my friend, like me, enjoy solving puzzles and mysteries and I can't imagine you trapped in that small box of domestic duties you are so willingly leading yourself to"

"So are you saying that every married man who 'solved his beloved one's mystery' and got to know her is unhappy and trapped 'in a box'? This is ridiculous, Holmes!"

"It's not what I'm saying, my friend, you are not listening to me" Holmes says, shaking his head. "I'm saying there must be something more to it than just an excitement of a new person"

Watson opens his mouth to retort, but snaps it shut, suddenly feeling way too angry with Holmes, though he knows perfectly well he's furious because Holmes' words make sense, but he chooses to ignore it. He looks at Holmes as the detective speaks again:

"I mean, it would be just too late when you finally accept that -"

Holmes stops in mid-sentence suddenly, his face stony and his whole body freezes. Watson frowns at that, sure that it's another trick Holmes decided to play on him, so he keeps silent and waits for what will come next.

But Holmes doesn't speak either, his eyes wide and looking somewhere above Watson's right shoulder, and though the doctor still doesn't buy it he turns around, not seeing anything unusual.

When he looks back at Holmes, though, there's uneasy feeling in his stomach as he has never seen this expression on the detective's face before. Holmes brows are furrowed, his eyes wide and fixed on something beyond Watson's reach, his lips slightly parted. The pipe is lying on Holmes' lap, obviously having fallen from his mouth, the tobacco spilled all around.

The obvious fear distorted his face and for a brief moment Watson feels it too. He swallows nervously, watching Holmes shrivel up with fear in his chair, the detective's breathing become harsh and shallow, and his chest rising and falling unsteadily.

"Holmes?" Watson calls quietly, not sure why he feels so uncomfortable.

Holmes jerks so violently Watson is sure he has forgotten where he is. His body moves in Watson's direction, his eyes, though, stay fixed on something behind Watson.

"Yes?" he rasps, and his voice sounds so hoarse as if he hasn't talked in days.

"What's wrong?" Watson asks him tentatively, the situation seems somewhat unrealistic to him.

"What? Nothing" Holmes replies too quickly, finally looking at the doctor, and Watson is overwhelmed by the primal fear in Holmes' eyes. He automatically turns around again, hoping to see this thing that could have possibly scared Holmes so much but he can't find anything for the life of him.

Holmes stands up sharply, his pipe falling on the floor with a loud crack but he doesn't seem to hear it.

"I-I should go now, Watson, see you later, yes" Holmes rambles, avoiding doctor's gaze, and Watson reaches out and grabs him by the forearm in a desperate attempt to stop him from running to the door.

"Holmes, please, wait, what was that?! I mean, you were -"

He stops, only now noticing Holmes' right hand is twitching so hard it's actually shaking. Holmes follows his gaze and quickly puts his hand in a pocket before Watson has time to grab it.

"I should go" he insists more firmly, but Watson doesn't let him.

"Wait, I must look at your hand -"

"_I said I should go!_" Holmes suddenly yells, making Watson take a step back. Now he looks really mad, his eyes flashing and chest rising and falling violently. His sweaty hair stuck to his forehead and for a moment Watson wants to wipe them away.

Holmes shouts: "Get the bloody hell off me, Watson, or are you deaf as well as ignorant?!"

Watson keeps silent, shocked and confused with such behavior, and Holmes takes advantage of that and escapes quickly through the main entrance, without looking back once.

When Watson's out of his trance-like state, Holmes is already out of his house.

----

**A/N:** So here's the first chapter, not big, but I promise the next one will be longer. I don't know anything about the frequency of my future posts, as I don't have much time during the week and I also plan on writing my other fics – and I have like shit load of unfinished fics in Harry Potter and the Dark Knight – so, please bear with me.

Also, if you'd be so kind, please, point out the mistakes I made I'd be really happy :)

The next parts will be longer and darker, as I'm really into emotional torture of a character, so well, I warned you. Also, the rating will change.

Thank you for reading and, please, review!


	3. William

**A/N: Here's the second chapter, and as I promised it's much longer than the previous ones. **

**I also want to thank all of those who reviewed to this story, thank you **_**so much**_**, you can't even imagine how much your reviews mean to me! THANK YOU!**

**Now, read and enjoy, and don't forget to review this chapter, I've kinda put my soul in it :)**

**Chapter ****2.**

_**William **_

When Holmes comes back to his house, his hand is still shaking violently. He doesn't stop, though, instead he rushes past Mrs. Hudson to the second floor and locks the door behind him on every single lock he has there, annoyed as his hand wouldn't obey him. Once he's sure he's done everything he could to prevent anybody from entering, he slides down the door, closing his eyes shut with a painful expression.

He doesn't want to think about what has just happened, his mind refuses to acknowledge it or even consider it to be possible. It can't actually be happening to him, Holmes thinks, desperately, it just can't.

The images of the eternal darkness right behind the Watson's chair flash before his eyes, enchanting him, intimidating him, blowing coldness on him, _swallowing_ him, and he shudders, trying to think of a reasonable explanation to it, the one that will not include his being crazy.

It all is the opium, he finally thinks, grasping at the idea, and he's glad he's finally found something to blame. He jumps up, standing on his feat unsteadily, and he solemnly swears to himself he'll never use it in his life ever again.

Or alcohol. He will never _ever_ take a single drop in his mouth once more. The drugs and the alcohol must be the only sensible explanation –

"I think you have forgotten something else"

Holmes stops dead in his tracks and he feels like he has missed the step on the stairs and he's falling, or something inside of him has just fallen down and broken. He straightens his back, painfully so, but he refuses to turn around to face the person speaking somewhere from the window, because he recognizes that voice.

He thinks he will never be able to forget it.

"What is it?" the voice mocks. "Do I make you uncomfortable, _Sherlock_?"

Holmes winces. He doesn't want to hear that, not again, not _ever_, and he can only breathe deeply and slowly, in and out, in and out.

_You're not here._

"Am I, really? Then do turn around and face me, fine detective!"

The air in the room seems to have gotten cold, really cold, making Holmes shiver slightly and the hair on his arms stand with goose bumps. Left with no choice, but still having hope that all of it will just disappear right about now, Holmes turns around.

There, right on the windowsill, the man is sprawled imposingly, or not a man, but a boy about the age of seventeen. He is half-sitting half-lying on the windowsill, leaning his back onto the wall, his legs crossed at his ankles, arms folded at his chest. He looks Holmes up and down, that ever-present boyish curiosity written on his face and something like madness in his eyes, making Holmes to relive all those times many years ago. The boy smirks knowingly at him.

"What now, _Sherlock_, can't you _deduce_ a logical explanation for me?" His voice is the same as it had always been, as Holmes remembers it, and he looks the same too. His reddish hair is still disheveled and bright, his green eyes twinkling at him, dimples showed while smiling.

After all this years he hasn't changed _at all_, and for _that_ Holmes knows the reason in the heart of hearts.

Holmes swallows, several times, trying to get rid of the bitterness in his mouth but it doesn't go anywhere, and his throat is so dry it hurts him to even try.

"What are you doing here, William?" he finally says and his voice is almost as cold as he'd like it to be and he tries his best to at least seem self-controlled regardless of his nearly shaking beneath the calm façade.

"What, are you not happy to see me?" William asks him, tilting his head to the side and squinting at him as if to see him better. Holmes feels the hair on the back of his neck stand.

"Why have you come back?" Holmes wonders bitterly instead of answering, though he's not sure whether he wants to know the answer.

"Why? Well, Sherlock, my friend, I believe you are fully capable of deducing it yourself" William grins, his dimples showing. "Because _you need me._"

He's silent for a moment and then: "I've never left, though, my friend" he smiles happily, nodding.

"_You have never been here_, to begin with" Holmes corrects him firmly, though he feels more and more with each second that he's losing it. He realizes he's been clenching his hands in fists so tightly, his nails have left almost bleeding marks on his sweaty palms. He wipes them on his pants hastily.

"You're mistaken, Sherlock, I've _always_ been here. Your inability to see me doesn't mean I wasn't here all this time"

He can't believe this is happening, not again, please. He exhales shakily, shutting his eyes until they sting, willing William to disappear, praying all gods and spirits he doesn't believe in to please, _please_, make William disappear.

When he opens his eyes, William is no longer there. For a moment he stands still, shocked, and dazed and then he turns around feverishly, his heart beating violently in his chest.

There's a sudden knocking on the door and then Watson's voice calls "Holmes! Open up!"

Holmes breathes shakily and goes to the door, to undo all of his locks, trying to stiffen his hair while he does, suddenly very careful about his appearance.

"What in blasted hell have you put all these locks for, Holmes?" Watson exclaims, bemused, from the other side of the door, obviously bored of the numerous clicking sounds of Holmes's locks. "As if Devil himself was chasing you!"

_May be he was_

Holmes opens the door finally, but not completely, just for his face to fit in and Watson at once starts to enter the door, failing as Holmes holds it firmly, not letting his friend in.

Watson's face wears the expression of both worry and annoyance, though he chooses the latter when he speaks.

"Holmes!"

"Yes?"

"Why wouldn't you let me in?!"

"Ah, I'm afraid I can't, my friend" Holmes says and puts a smile on his face which comes out shaky and unsteady, as he tries his best to think of a reason not to let Watson in his room.

"And why so, pray tell me?!"

"Ah" he mumbles to win some time "I'm currently in the middle of an experiment" he finally ventures.

"Oh really?" Watson repeats quite dubiously "And what is it, exactly?"

"I can't tell you" Holmes says bluntly, suddenly getting annoyed with Watson. All he wants is just being left alone and Watson doesn't help the matter. "And I can't let you in my room, too"

"Holmes, don't be petty, let me in!" Watson insists indignantly and Holmes flares up, too.

"This is _my_ room, Watson!"

"And _I'd_ been living here for three years!"

"So what?! _You left!_" Holmes shouts, not sure why exactly he's so dangerously mad, not liking one bit of his own tone which contains too much information, too much emotion, too much _hurt and pain_.

Watson keeps silent and exhales deeply; his hand goes up to rub his forehead – a clear sign that he's indeed either furious or annoyed or, even, sad.

"And what are you doing here, anyway?" Holmes demands, still angry and rather uncomfortable with having lost his self-control so fast and shown so much emotion.

"Why, obviously I followed you after your rather dramatic escape from my house! I thought something was wrong!" Watson explains and Holmes can detect defending notes in his voice, as if he has done something truly terrible by coming here. When he speaks again, his sound much less confident and a tiny bit hurt, making Holmes regret his tone immediately. "And who are you talking to?" Watson asks him suspiciously.

"Why, I do believe I'm talking to you, old boy." Holmes answers, sounding calmer this time.

"Holmes!" Watson is annoyed now. "I mean who you _were_ talking to when I came? I heard your voice."

"I don't quite understand what you're talking about, Watson" he answers nonchalantly, his mind racing.

"I'm sure you do! When I came to your door I heard your voice! Is anyone in there?" Watson demands, trying to peer into the room, standing on tiptoe. He's saying something else, something about Holmes behaving like a child and mistrusting him but the meaning of his words doesn't register in Holmes' mind as he suddenly hears a sound of movement from behind his back.

As quickly as he can he turns around and his heart stops, just like it always does, at seeing William who smirks at him.

He closes his eyes, tired, scared, confused, hurt, his right hand shaking as he mouthes the word '_William'_.

"Why don't you call me 'Willy' anymore, Sherlock, my boy?" he wonders playfully and Holmes shudders, hearing the endearment he once so loved to hear.

Watson meanwhile takes advantage of Holmes' immobility and finally lets himself in, turning his head in all possible directions. He looks disappointed when he realizes there's nothing extraordinary in the room.

"You are not experimenting, are you, Holmes?" Watson states rather than asks, realizing the detective had lied to him, _again_, and Holmes would've been able to see hurt in his eyes if he had turned to look at his friend, but he doesn't. Instead, he shuts his eyes until he sees stars, hoping against hope, William will disappear.

"So what's the matter, Holmes?" Watson begins again, and at the same time William speaks:

"Ooh, Watson himself is here, I'm _so_ excited!" he exclaims and his eyes darken, telling Holmes there's more than just excitement beneath. He swallows loudly.

"Holmes!" Watson calls him, trying to gain his friend's attention, looking positively furious.

"I've been watching him, you know" William speaks again, tilting his head to the side. "I mean, after he moved. Do you want to know what I think?"

Holmes keeps silent, unable to answer while Watson is in the room and his heart beats painfully in his chest as he tries to decide how to make both of these men disappear from his room.

"In my humble opinion, he's missing you so much, he can hardly sleep" William continues cheerfully. "He just keeps tossing and turning in his bed all night long, thinking of _you_, while that useless witch deceives herself in thinking he's all hers -"

"Yes, Watson?" Holmes almost shouts, trying to outvoice William, and he feels like shrinking in a ball from all this insanity.

"What the blasted hell is the matter with you?!" Watson matches his voice in loudness, his brow furrowed and his glare burning a hole in Holmes.

'_Go away, William, please'_ he silently pleads, gasping loudly when the whispering appears in his ears.

"Are you telling me I'm not welcome here anymore?" William says, quirking an eyebrow, always aware of what Holmes is thinking. His eyes darken once again. "I see Watson has made you forget all about me" he spits Watson's name like it's curse and Holmes pleads him with his eyes to stop.

_How could I possibly forget you?_

"I've always been there for you!" William continues, his voice dangerously sweet. "I used to keep you company, make you smile and laugh, protect you from all evil, and it had always been just the two of us, Sherlock! Or _have you forgotten that?!_"

William's eyes are almost black now and Holmes can't make himself look at him anymore, he turns around, feeling tears in the back of his eyes and he can't do anything, he doesn't know what to do anymore, his hand is shaking so hard, and _oh god_, Watson is calling him –

"HOLMES!"

There are hands on his shoulders and Holmes is afraid of opening his eyes to look whose they are. The hands are warm, though, unlike William's and he believes it's Watson who's been led down to his boiling point.

Watson shakes him and Holmes' eyes fleet open in surprise to see Watson's worried face few inches from his own.

"_God_, Holmes!"

William appears out of nowhere just behind Watson's shoulder and looks intensively at the doctor, his eyes narrowed.

"I do like his moustache" He grins sincerely, glancing at Holmes over Watson's shoulder. Holmes swallows the bile in his throat and feels the shiver go down his spine.

And then –

_Holmes' heart explodes__ with pure horror and he forgets how to breathe_

- then William leans in and gently kisses Watson on the cheek.

Watson doesn't even notice.

William looks back at him smugly, grins and pats the doctor on the cheek. "What do you feel now?"

He doesn't say anything, looking stupidly at the place on Watson's cheek where William has kissed him. The whispering is so loud he barely hears Watson's voice at all, William's, though, is as loud as ever, seemingly sounding right in his head.

"How do you _truly_ feel, Sherlock?"

"_Please, Holmes!_"

"Say it, my dear, say it!"

His head is spinning.

And then:

__

"SHUT UP!" He screams, his hands protecting his ears. "_SHUT UP!_ Shut the hell up and go away already! I _hate_ you, you _bastard_!"

And everything disappears at once – William, the whispering and so do Watson's hands on his shoulders.

Watson stares at him, anger, hurt, offence and something else in his eyes which Holmes doesn't have time nor wish to recognize, and, just like that, Watson walks away from the room, shutting the door quietly.

Finally being left alone, Holmes leans heavily on the wall as his legs refuse to hold him and his left hand is gently rubbing his shaking right one. He stares blankly at the windowsill where William was sitting less than an hour ago.

He doesn't worry about Watson – he knows he'll be back sooner or later.

He has another problem to worry about.

He doesn't know for how long he's been sitting there, but he's sure to wait until his hand stops twitching before he stands up and goes to the bathroom.

There's no sight of William in the room and all is quiet.

----

That night, lying in his bed Watson thinks about what had happened today over and over again and it just can't leave him alone, the images of Holmes, scared out of his mind, wouldn't stop flashing before his eyes.

Watson has never been stupid, quite the reverse, he's always considered himself to be smart, and he surely could draw a sensible conclusion of what he'd witnessed earlier this day. He could focus on Holmes' behavior and collect a whole bunch of his friend's actions which can – must – be called _symptoms_. Watson could concentrate his attention on the detective's shaking hand, his appearance, his words and they would be enough even for a stupid man with no medical education to realize there surely is something really wrong with Holmes.

Of course, Watson could do this but then it would mean_**something is wrong with Holmes**_, and he just can't imagine such a thing. Holmes can be sick with flu, he can be wounded by a bullet, he can fracture his leg and though Watson would still be worried he'd know it is all fixable and simple, and Holmes will remain his cheerful and annoying self.

But he can't nor wants to imagine anything really wrong with him, something that will be serious and terrifying, something that would deeply affect his character. It would mean he will have to lose Holmes, his best friend, the most (_one of the most_) dearest person in his life, _his Holmes_ and he can't even bring himself to think about it.

So, feeling truly horrible and scared and terrified in the heart of hearts, Watson grabs at the idea of Holmes being his usual annoying and impossible self today, yelling at Watson and lying to him and sending him away from his house –

He sighs desperately, turning to his other side again, as he knows _that's a lie_

"Try to sleep, darling" Mary mumbles sleepily from the other side of the bed, her voice muffled by the pillow, and Watson moves closer to her, wrapping an arm around her petite fragile form and he forces himself to stop thinking of goddamn Holmes, he's just been a complete moron today, _there's nothing unusual about it_

In a minute he's deeply asleep, his conscience lulled by the fake confidence his mind has created, to relieve himself of all the responsibility he subconsciously feels.

Unfortunately, he doesn't know yet how much he will regret it later.

----

Please, review.


	4. All the happy memories

**Here's chapter three and I once again thank all of you guys who actually bothered to leave a review – THANK YOU! I need them in order to survive and since you are giving me them I love you forever :D**

**Please, tell me what you think about this one!**

**Chapter 3.**

_**All the happy memories.**_

"And where are _you_ going?"

"With you, of course!"

"_Of course?_ I wonder what could possibly make you think you are welcome here, Sherlock?"

"But Mom said –"

"I don't care what she said. You are _not_ coming with us, understand?"

"_Please_, Mycroft, maybe I could…"

His voice trails off as he watches his elder brother walks away from him with his friends, not paying attention anymore. His eyes sting and he holds back tears in the back of his eyes, willing himself not to cry because he's big boy now, he's _seven_ and such grown-up boys never cry. Still, the feeling of being useless and unloved does nothing but increase, growing in his stomach and spreading up his whole body, suffocating him ruthlessly.

The feeling is suddenly so overwhelming that he can't bear it anymore, his legs refuse to hold him and he leans heavily on the wall of the nearest building, breathing heavily and shallowly, what seems like enormous lump in his throat and the thoughts – those, which he constantly tries to get rid of – they are choking him.

_His mother doesn't need him, she doesn't love him, she's never there for him because he's useless and not like every other children, his brother hates him, he's useless, he's a freak, nobody loves him nor needs him, he's all by himself, he's got no one else in the world, he's so lonely_

All of these thoughts just down on him at once, and he finally cries, loudly and with effort, and the fact that no one of the people who pass him by even stops or turns to him, the crying little boy, makes him feel even more pathetic.

And then he feels a hand on his shoulder, very cold one, but still a hand and he looks up at the man hopefully.

The man who squats down before him is not very old, and for Sherlock he seems like twenty-something. He's got disheveled reddish hair and striking green eyes looking at him with infinite kindness.

Sherlock can't explain it even to himself, but he feels somewhat strange, like something's not right, not the way it's supposed to be. He looks around and though he sees nothing unusual, he can feel it in the air, some _wrongness_, something beyond words.

He blinks, and the feeling disappears.

The man reaches up and gently wipes away the tears from his cheeks, making Sherlock blush deeply at both the contact and the fact he's been weeping so hard in front of another man.

"Don't cry, Sherlock, my boy" the man says, his voice loving and caring and Sherlock almost misses the man's awareness of his name. He opens his mouth to ask but the man cuts in "I've been looking at you for a while and heard your brother call you by the name" he explains with a gentle smile.

He pauses, looking Sherlock in the eye so intensely, he can't force himself to look away.

"Sherlock" the man whispers his name lowly and tenderly, like no one's ever had "You truly have a very beautiful name"

His words sound so sincere that Sherlock blushes. In fact, he's always hated his name and was shy of it – the consequence of Mycroft mocking him constantly about it, so the man's compliment means double much too him.

"Thank you" he babbles, avoiding eye contact.

"You're welcome, my boy" and his heart jumps inside of him, because no one has ever called him _'my boy'_ and he's now ready to follow this man wherever he goes. "Would you like to be friends with me?"

"Yes!" he says too quickly to look polite, but the man doesn't seem to mind.

"Wonderful, then!" he smiles and pats Sherlock's shoulders. "Now, come with me!" He adds, standing up. He's so tall Sherlock barely reaches his navel level, but is must also be the fact that Sherlock is too small for his age.

"Wait, what is your name?" Sherlock asks him shyly and for a moment he thinks he saw the man's eyes turn black. He shudders, but the image is gone and he's not sure whether he saw it or imagined. The man smiles widely and stretches out his large hand:

"William. My name is William"

----

"Please, William, go away!"

"Why?"

"Because I know you're are not here, so stop bothering me!"

"_Bothering_ you?! So that's what I'm doing now?! _Bothering you?!_"

"No, no! I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that!" Holmes quickly says before William gets mad.

Because God knows he doesn't want William to get mad.

They're sitting in his room, or, more exactly _he_ is sitting in his room with his non-existent friend who has decided to appear in his life again all of a sudden.

"Why are you here, William?" He asks tentatively, feeling tired and sick for some reason.

"Because you need me" comes the same reply as ever.

"No I don't! I don't." he states, doing his best to stay self-controlled. "I don't and I haven't for almost seven years now, so please do understand that your assistance is not required. Not anymore" And that is true. The hair on his arms and neck still stand with goose pimples at the memory of their last day together.

They are of the same age now, but Holmes still feels like a little boy in front of William.

"Ah, I see" William smirks, tilting his head to the side. "But I wouldn't be so sure of that, taking into consideration the other night last week when you were crying into your pillow for hours like you are seven, not _seventeen_."

His eyes go wide. "You -"

"Of course I was watching you, Sherlock! I've told you so many times already that _I'm always with you_, I'm _always_ watching you even though you don't see me"

He shuts his eyes with a pained expression. "Alright, now _please_ go"

And then the voice sounds right in his head: "Are you afraid of me now, my boy?"

He shudders, hearing the endearment and wishing he won't hear it ever again. His heart is beating painfully in his chest and his throat is dry but he can't not answer, or William will be mad.

"No"

"Don't you dare lie to me, Sherlock!" William hisses and the echo of his voice sounds in Holmes' ears painfully, accompanied with feverish whispering and he suddenly feels like crying. "Don't you dare do that, or maybe you want to see me angry?!"

He doesn't answer, his eyes hurt as he shuts them so tightly.

"_Do you?!_"

"NO, I DON'T! Yes, I'm afraid of you, _yes_, who wouldn't be, considering what you've done to Jack!?"

And he sobs hard, his whole body shaking with fear, hurt, anger, confusion, grief. He remembers the boy, all these years ago, a boy whom he once considered his only friend. Who he used to play with when he was little and found confidence in. That was, until William learnt about him.

Now Holmes knows at first hand what it is like when William is angry and for the life of him he doesn't want to ever witness it again.

He still feels too guilty to visit Jack's grave after all this time.

So, he takes a deep breath and repeats firmly: "Go away, William"

"But why?"

And all over again it starts.

----

"Willy! You're here!"

"Of course, Sherlock, my boy, you don't turn nine years old every other day!"

Willy comes and sits on the age of his bed, his eyes shining.

"Don't get too close, doctor says I'm contagious." He informs his friend sadly but Willy only smiles and shrugs it off.

"Don't you worry about me, my friend, I will be fine. It is your birthday, not mine so you're the big boy today"

Sherlock grins so widely his cheeks ache, and though the doctor ordered him to lie still, he struggles to sit and hugs Willy tightly.

_He's so lucky to have such a friend! _

"There, there, my boy, I'm glad to see you, too!" Willy says, smiling and patting him on the back.

"How did you manage to come in, by the way? Mother doesn't let anyone in here" he says, thinking that in fact, there's no one else to try to come to him.

"Oh that was simple, the door was opened so I sneaked into the house and then quietly got upstairs, directly into your room. Your… _mother_ didn't even notice me."

He spits the word 'mother' with so much hatred and contempt that Sherlock fidgets in his place uncomfortably and for a second he's sure Willy's eyes are terrifyingly black, but the next moment its gone and he wonders why he even worried.

"So what are we gone do today? Do you want to solve puzzles? Or else we could do some work in French?"

He nods enthusiastically. He doesn't care what they will do as long as they will do it together and Willy won't leave him alone in this cold grey room. He smiles happily and Willy smiles back at him.

----

----

Holmes wakes up, and the feeling of happiness quickly withers, making way for misery and exhaustion as he finds himself curled in his bed in a fetal position, his hands gripping the blankets so tightly his knuckles has gone white.

There're both tension and weakness in his body, altogether making it almost impossible for him to move, his limbs numb for some reason. He slowly flexes his fingers – at first on the left hand, than on the right, and then he feels a man's weight on the mattress to his left and he freezes, for a moment hoping it's Watson who has come to him during night for however improbable reason, but all his hopes shatter in one moment as he hears that voice:

"Good morning, Sherlock, my boy"

And he screams.

----

"What do you want for dinner, darling?" Mary asks him in that sweet loving voice of hers and he feels guilty again and again for hating it so much.

"Whatever you wish to make for me" he replies through gritted teeth, fuming silently.

Mary looks at him closely. "What is the matter, John?"

"For God's sake, Mary, can you leave me alone for one goddamn minute?!" he exclaims, wondering what, indeed, he is so pissed about. Mary hasn't done anything wrong lately, or said anything at least vaguely _interesting-_

He needs to stop thinking like that - it will not end well for any of them. He's just so nervous because of Holmes.

He bites his lip hard; he was not worried when Holmes didn't show up the next day after the incident in his room. Nor the day after that. But he did begin to worry when there was no news of his friend for four days in a row, and he couldn't pretend everything's alright anymore. The doctor in him was surmising diagnose after diagnose, each worse than the one before.

Mary was not helping the matter. Her calm, quiet and painfully predictable self was getting on his nerves and the whole situation with Holmes and his really sensible words about Watson's premature marriage and Holmes' sudden absence was annoying the hell out of him, finally bringing him to boil.

He stands up abruptly and grabs his hat and cane and heads to the door. Mary goes after him, frowning,

"Where are you going?!"

Her voice is no longer calm and sweet, but high and a bit rowdy and deep inside he feels sadistic pleasure at hearing that.

"I'm going to see Holmes" he deadpans.

"But- you- you wanted to wait and -"

"Well I can't wait anymore! My best friend is god only knows where and he's most like far from being alright while I sit here pretending he is!"

And with that he escapes, leaving Mary behind.

---

Don't forget to review!


	5. Illusions

**So here's finally the fourth chapter! I must admit I wrote it and rewrote it for the shitload of times and I still don't like it… however I decided to post it just before I leave the country XD  
Anyway, it's not very long, but I tried my best, seeing as I've also been suffering the writer's block (again)… so, here we ago!****  
Oh and also, this chapter is rated R – for safe, cause I suck at defining the actual rating…  
Enjoy!**

**Chapter 4.**

_**Illusions.**_

Holmes is already starting to lose his ability to count the days he has spent in his room without walking out, all alone.

Well, except for _William_.

He thinks it's been a week, but he can easily be mistaken, after all, William could have made him think anything he wants, he likes to play mental games with him. The ones, Holmes doesn't know the rules of.

The days mix together, his memory is a mess, brought down to the line where he can't even tell appart what happened half an hour ago and what happened half a week ago. He just lies in bed, drifting off to sleep from time to time; sometimes he eats whatever Mrs. Hudson has left at his door. Sometimes he attempts to read, not actually seeing the words on the page, the lines blurred before his eyes, his thoughts all about Watson, who still hasn't showed up.

And, of course, William is always by his side.

He gets off from the bed and makes his way to the bathroom, staggering while he does it. William is nowhere to be seen, but he doesn't dare to get his hopes high; he knows William well enough to know he wouldn't leave him that easily.

He splashes some cold water on his face and lifts his gaze up, staring back at the mirror, seeing face that he doesn't recognize. He briefly closes his eyes, unable to see the man reflecting there: gaunt face, at the point of being dreadfully gaunt, hollow cheeks, black circles around his eyes, which shine sickly and seem to be large; his hair stuck up in all possible direction. He refuses to believe it's actually him, that he has got to that point in his life when he can't recognize himself in the mirror.

He stares some more, leaning on the sink, and then his reflection smirks and winks at him mockingly and ominously.

He quickly turns away, telling himself it's just William playing around with him, he has done that a lot already. The most important, he reminds himself, is to keep looking at things clearly and be able to tell the difference between illusion and reality.

Too bad William has almost destroyed that thin line for him.

Holmes collapses in his chair, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He feels the dull pain in his head which usually precedes the actual headache. And that means William is soon to appear. Even as though he knows it's absolutely impossible, he tries to mentally prepare himself for the grand arrival.

William doesn't make him wait long.

"How are you today, my friend?" The voice sounds in Holmes' ears, but he doesn't open his eyes to look at the man in the room. He just winces.

"I was very well until you showed up" he responds wearily.

"What, you don't want to see me?" William inquires innocently as if he doesn't know the answer already.

As if he doesn't ask it every time he decides to show up.

"No I don't, William, like I didn' yesterday and the day before yesterday and the day before – _no_, I in no possible way have a slightest bit of desire to hear you or see you, as you are the most loathsome creature I've ever had a misfortune to lay my eyes on" He ventures, thinking about what it would be like if William just listened to him and went away.

"My Goodness, wasn't that just _so_ well-phrased!" William laughs. "But maybe I can do something so it would be more delightful for you to _lay your eyes on_ _me_? Anything?"

Holmes doesn't bother to answer him, just sinking deeper in his chair.

"Maybe you'd like to look at me _now_?" William wonders after almost a minute of blissful silence and Holmes knows he shouldn't open his eyes, so he keeps them shut. William snorts. "Look at me" Now it sounds more like an order.

Holmes doesn't, the sudden stubbornness rising in him as if doing the opposite William is telling him to do will make him feel a lot better. He guesses it's the only way left for him to feel anything near good at all.

"_Look at me, Sherlock!_" William hisses, and the next moment Holmes head explodes and he opens his eyes in defeat, having no desire to deal with so much pain now.

Watson is standing in front of him, his warm brown eyes fixed on Holmes' grey ones and Holmes suddenly finds himself unable to move, frozen in his chair and sinking in the depth of those hazel eyes, his mouth agape. He hasn't seen his friend for so long he can't even remember, and it's so good to see him again that for some moments he forgets who it is _actually_ before him.

Until Watson's lips twist in a dark ominous smirk that has never belonged his friend.

"What about now, Sherlock? Or shall I address to you as Holmes so I am more in-character?"

"You can address to me as Gladstone for all I care, but I'm not ten nor am I so naïf as to fall for your tricks anymore"

But William doesn't say anything to that, he just… smiles. Not that William-like smirk of his, but a warm Watson-smile that reaches his eyes, and now Holmes really can't tell the difference.

William slowly approaches him, his gaze fixed on Holmes', confidence radiating from him in waves.

"You want this, Holmes" Watson – no, _William_ – says, stepping closer and the distance between them now is only few inches; the doctor is _really _close to him. And it feels good to have Watson so close.

And recently Holmes realized what else would feel good with Watson.

William-Watson leans forward and the next moment he's sitting on Holmes' lap, his hot breath at the detective's ear.

"You want _me_" Watson whispers in his ear and slowly runs his tongue along the shell. Holmes exhales sharply, letting out the long breath he didn't realize he's been holding, and shudders. He's been craving it for so long that now he's ready to pretend it's actually happening.

Watson's hot lips wander down his neck and Holmes throws back his head, giving better access, his breathing now shallow and fast. The lips go down to his clavicles, to his chest, the warm hands unbuttoning his shirt before finally the wet mouth envelopes his nipple. Holmes shuts his eyes and moans, his pants already too tight.

Immediately, he feels a hand cup his crotch, making the waves of pleasure spread all over his body, his pulse quickens even more if it's even possible.

"I've always wanted you, only you, always loved you…" Watson whispers, planting small kisses all over the detective's chest. "Never wanted her, need only you…"

"_No_ – don't… don't… talk" Holmes pleads, because this way it's easier to pretend it's real. He just shuts his mind and opens up to the feelings this imitation of Watson causes in him.

"Open your eyes" Watson says quietly, and when he does he sees they're no longer in his room on Baker Street but at the flowery field with no ends visible around, all kind of bright colorful flowers and high grass surround them. The cool air blows against his cold skin and Holmes lies on his back, closing his eyes happily and giving in to the blissful state he is led to. No one will disturb them now, no one will take _this_ Watson away, no one will separate them again.

He almost feels Watson smirk as he kisses Holmes' neck. He doesn't think about it now.

-----

First thing that Watson sees on entering the house on Baker Street is Mrs. Hudson, who's cleaning the floor by the staircase. She wears somewhat stony expression on her face, and it looks so odd on her that Watson can't help asking: "Good day, Mrs. Hudson! How are you today?"

She gives a start and lifts her gaze at him sharply, frightened look on her face. Recognizing him, though, her face takes up an expression of relief.

"Oh, it's you, Dr Watson! I missed seeing you here, you definitely should visit us more often!" She rambles with an unconvincing smile. "I'm perfectly fine, thank you!"

She says it with a sharp edge, hiding something beneath the light tone, but even as he catches it he doesn't push the topic. Instead, he wonders: "And how is Holmes doing?"

He knows he hit the spot as the shadow runs across the landlady's face and her eyes darken. She makes another poor attempt at smiling. The corners of her mouth tremble.

"He's… well, he's been a little out of his mind lately" she replies, evasively.

"Whatever do you mean by that?" Watson inquires, frowning and he feels a stab of guilt as he looks upstairs in the direction of Holmes' room. God, what could possibly have happened with his friend? He hasn't visited Holmes for about a week now, could he even be referred as 'friend' to, after that?

"Oh, you should come and see him yourself" Mrs. Hudson says, stepping aside and gesturing at the Holmes' door. "He hasn't come of his room for almost a week now, always talking to someone… or something" her voice drifts off and she shakes her head regretfully.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I shall go to him now" Watson nods as he starts walking up the stairs, his heart pounding in his chest and he realizes he's actually afraid of entering Holmes' room to whatever he will find there.

However, John Watson has never considered himself to be a kind of men who run away from the complications, so he exhales sharply and grits his teeth, lifting his fist and knocking firmly.

There's silence and he knocks again, then again and when there's no answer he calls: "Holmes! Please, open up! It's me, Watson!"

The silence continues, but this time not for long as he hears slow steps from the inside of the room and then the door opens to reveal his friend – Watson gapes – skinny, _bony_ even, his eyes large on his narrow face with hollow cheeks, his skin unnaturally pale.

"Christ, Holmes, what have you done to yourself?!" He demands, shocked, as he lets himself in the room. Holmes doesn't answer but stares at him warily, his eyes boring a hole in Watson. He looks smaller now, Watson notices, even though his back is straight as ever, he looks somewhat shrunk.

"Watson? Is it really you?" he finally rasps disbelievingly, his voice hoarse.

Watson frowns at the question.

"Well, who else do you think I could be?" he says, trying to hide his worry beneath annoyed tone.

Holmes smirks so bitterly at his words that Watson realizes he must be missing something.

The silence falls between them, neither attempting to speak first.

Finally, Watson can bear the uncomfortable silence no longer: "So how have you been?" he asks just for the sake of saying something.

"Fabulous, as you might have already noticed" Holmes snorts, his tone dry. He leans on the wall, crossing his hands on his chest – a defensive gesture that Holmes rarely used before.

"Listen, Holmes, I'm sorry I didn't show up earlier, I should have come to see you -"

"You don't have to 'check on me', Watson" Holmes interrupts coldly, "I'm perfectly capable of living by myself. And you certainly don't need to come over here every time you have a squabble with your wife. Or when you're angry at her, for that matter"

Watson flares up "I didn't have a -"

"You're not wearing your wedding ring. Your clothes are rumpled in a way I can assume you've been wearing them several days already, and that is because of the fact you don't want to put on anything that was washed by your wife"

Watson stares, his moth opening and closing, at a loss of words. He surely had expected a more friendly welcome.

"So, what are you here for?" Holmes inquires in the same cold tone that is getting on Watson's nerves already.

"I guess I wanted to apologize for my behavior during our last meeting. I'm sorry I overreacted. But we need to talk about your condition, Holmes"

"There's nothing to talk about, Watson" the detective cuts him off "Your medical services are not required."

"'My medical services'?! I worry about you and I care about you! We shall talk about your physical condition right now, Holmes, and that is out of question!" Watson raises his voice to prove his point.

"Out of question is that you moved out of here and now have no right to come over and claim whatever you think is necessary." Holmes snaps, narrowing his eyes at him. Then, he looks down at his feet, annoyed expression on his face. "And take that goddamn dog off me, Watson!"

Watson stops dead in his tracks, confused. "Excuse me?"

"Gladstone is drooling all over my feet again!" Holmes exclaims, wincing. "Why have you brought him here at the first place?!" And he bends and waves his hands at the dog he must be seeing there.

Watson just stares at his friend silently, aching feeling appears in his stomach along with the feeling of falling down sharply. There's a lump in his throat and suddenly, he feels like shrinking in a ball and crying. He shuts his stinging eyes with a painful expression, breathing deeply, and he doesn't want to believe in what he sees. He refuses to believe something is wrong with Holmes. Please, God, not this, _please_.

But he can't lie to himself anymore. Holmes is sick and he _has_ to admit it, no matter what he wants. Holmes is most likely _mentally sick._

And _he_ must assume some measures about it.

Holmes must have noticed his sharp change of expression because he eyes him tentatively now, all masks aside.

"Watson? What's wrong?"

He clears his throat, wishing to postpone oncoming moment for as long as he can.

"I haven't brought Gladstone here, Holmes. He's at home with Mary now" He finally says, his voice cracking.

"What? But I- oh…" Holmes shuts his eyes as the realization downs on him mercifully. "He's not here" He states, his voice higher than usual. "For all I know, you may not be here as well"

"No, Holmes, no, _I am_ here, god…" he rambles, unable to think of what to say or do to help the situation. He moves closer to put a hand on Holmes' shoulder. The man gives a start before relaxing a bit and almost leaning into the touch. "We do need to talk"

Holmes is looking vulnerable now and even smaller than before and Watson wants nothing more than to embrace his friend and tell him everything will be alright.

Too bad they both know it won't.

"I've been seeing things that are not there" Holmes suddenly confesses, avoiding Watson's gaze.

"I've figured so far"

Holmes finally looks at him, his eyes pained and weary, looking exhausted altogether, making Watson give in to impulse and hug him closely to his chest, his arms going around and bringing him even closer. He feels Holmes' back tense and then relax as Holmes let his head fall on Watson's shoulder. They stay like this for a while, sharing warmth and closeness they both have been missing, relishing the moment of finally being together again.

And then Holmes begins to talk.

-----

From his corner of the room William watches the pair, frowning. He glares at Watson as the doctor lets his hands wander around Holmes' back while he listens to the detective.

William is angry. He is _mad_. Not only has Holmes told someone about him, but he also lets this Watson get all over him. He hates the doctor. No one dares, _ever_, cross the line between him and Holmes because Holmes is _his_, _William's_. He has always been.

But Holmes seems to have forgotten who has been there for him from the beginning, who has been lighting up the day for him and been keeping him company. He has seemingly forgotten who protected him from all evil, entertained him, taught him languages and supported him every time something was wrong. Who had kept him from his suicidal attempt and dealt with the consequences. It certainly wasn't Watson to whom Holmes is currently whining about him. It was William who has always been there and never left Holmes like that doctor did.

Holmes must have forgotten all about that.

William smirks.

He just needs a reminder.

-----

**Please, guys, tell me what you think of it! Unfortunately, I won't be able to answer the reviews cuz I'm taking a vacation and going to Sri-Lanka in the morning :D (Yaaay!!) But I'll reply to all of the comments as soon as I come back!**


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